A Stay in Connecticut
by Missy the Least
Summary: Robert Hogan comes home to his folks, carrying baggage that his father was not quite prepared for, told from John Hogan's point of view...a tale inspired by Goldleaf83's Conversation series (but not part of it, but used with her permission)
1. Chapter 1

A Stay in Connecticut

A/N: Robert Hogan comes home to his folks, carrying baggage that his father was not quite prepared for, told from John Hogan's point of view...a tale inspired by Goldleaf83's Conversation series (but not part of it, but with her permission and encouragement) this is planned as a two-shot, and while it can be part of my Dear Rob AU 'Verse, it can stand alone on its own merits.

However, I would like to point out that in my story this is August of 1945, shortly after the Atomic Bomb was dropped, Hogan is in his early to mid 30s, and made General, he has a fear of cold basement rooms, was tortured during his original interrogation at the Dulag and then again while he was in Gestapo custody (and he has the scars to prove it, which scares and enrages John Hogan to no end), and I think that's enough to go on.

Continuing thanks to Snooky, Kat, Wolfie for their constant support, to Goldleaf for allowing this AU vision of her world, to Bits and Pieces for allowing me the use of her OC Mike Fitzgerald (from her amazing story "What Price Happiness?") and to the originators of Hogan's Heroes, for giving us so much to work with.  
As usual, I own nussink!

Chapter 1 – The Story Thus Far

The image is burned into my mind; such a simple thing, unremarkable.

I am looking out the upstairs window, and I see a man, tall, older, in a summer weight uniform, carrying a battered suitcase, walking down the street.

Towards our house.

I think, I've never seen him around before, and the neighbors' sons and fathers, whether here or there, are accounted for.

Must be someone for Rob.

The soldier bears out my deduction, turning up our walkway.

Oddly, he stops dead about half-way. Just looking, looking at the house.

He looks nervous, like he's lost and not sure where he is or what he's doing here.

I'm getting ready to shout down to him from the open window (we live on Chestnut Place and there's a Chestnut Street on the east side of town), when Rob walks out the front door.

He looks up at the stranger in our yard.

He, too, is now stopped dead.

But only for a second.

My son's whoop breaks the afternoon silence, shouting the name of the last person on Earth that I would never hope to see.

He goes swooping down from the front landing, and I don't think his feet have touched the ground more than two steps before he's tackled the man.

I think that Rob might have knocked anyone else over, but this man is just slightly taller and broader than he is, he's braced himself for the contact, and his arms are flung open wide, enfolding my boy on impact.

Like he has a right to do it.

I can hear them, hear them both, jabbering away, mixing up German and English and Rob's German is so good, if I didn't know the sound of my own son's voice, I'd swear he was the visitor to these shores. The other man's English is beautiful and beautifully formal, almost British in intonation, and the accent is very light.

Most folks don't realize that sound carries on suburban streets; almost no one knows that there is a spot in our front yard where anything said will sound like it's coming from ten feet away.

Guess where they are right now.

I can hear every word like they're standing next to me and what I don't understand I can guess.

You're alright; you're back; you made it; you're okay...both of them talking over one another, saying the same things in different ways, clutching each other like they'd been drowning and just found firm sand underfoot.

A simple thing, unremarkable. Playing out throughout this country and throughout the world, best friends finding each other, reuniting.

It's beautiful.

And all I want to do right now is tear them apart and drag my son away.

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It wasn't the first time that I'd seen soldiers reunited.

My little brother, Jimmy, had fought in the Great War and when he came home, he wasn't the same happy-go-lucky kid. He'd seen so much - done so much - and he couldn't seem to leave the war behind.

Then one day, a friend of his showed up on our door step, a little Canadian named Pierre.

The only difference between that reunion and this one is that Jimmy did knock Pierre over.

Pierre stayed with us for over a month and in that time Jimmy went from hollow and withdrawn to completely alive again.

It was wonderful to see the sparkle back in Jimmy's eyes.

When Pierre left, it was only temporary; he was coming back to immigrate for good, and they were going to open a business together.

On the way back from dropping his friend off at the train station platform, a loose chuck of concrete from an overhead walkway crashed on my Jimmy's head, killing him instantly.

A dumb freak accident, and yet I was cool to Pierre ever after, secretly blaming him for my brother being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Funny how much the German soldier out front reminds me of Pierre.

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This isn't the first time Rob has brought home a friend in need either. "Strays" my sister would sniff whenever she stayed with us. Strays they would seem to most people, but never to Rob.

Armando the cabbie (the teen had preferred to be called 'Darwin') who was stuck when his cab broke down after delivering his fare from Idlewild;

Mother's neighbors' child, Charles, that Rob would bring home as often as he could (which wasn't often enough for any of us, but as long as Charles wouldn't tell me what was really happening, we had no proof);

The West Point adjunct teacher who needed a place to stay the summer of Rob's freshman year (ought to check with the Potters to see if Sherm had gotten back yet from France);

The many many classmates and neighborhood kids and tradesmen and friends of friends who had needed a meal, a place to stay, or perhaps just someone to talk to, to listen...

So the scene at the dinner table isn't unusual. Rob, chattering like a magpie, drawing his companion out, amusing and embarrassing him and making him laugh at them both...

In fact, it's normal in a way that hasn't been 'normal' for a decade. Maybe even longer. Not since Mike Fitzgerald, (my son's best friend and the other golden boy in this town), left to join the Navy, has my boy looked like this; like all his dreams have come true.

They are saying things to Ann, she answering back.

Good thing they aren't speaking to me, I've lost the thread of the conversation since we sat down.

I hear only a fraction of the quips:

"Robert, really, I'm sure I can tell your mother about this, it is a part of the official record after all. In triplicate. I should know, I had to file the reports."

I understand none of them.

I realize as Rob gets up to clear the table what has had me on edge all day long; my boy's slouch is back. He hasn't been this relaxed since he came back to us.

Some thing has healed him.

In the space of an afternoon, this man has brought Rob back to himself, sound and whole.

I excuse myself as politely as I can manage and head upstairs.

My son is happy, and I should be happy too.

'Happy' is the last word I would use to describe myself.

Quite the opposite.

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As I ready myself for bed, I still cannot make sense of it all.

I just cannot understand WHY my son, my heroic, patriotic, 'can't stand bullies and will do anything to give them a hard time' boy is treating his captor, his jailor, this Hessian, _our enemy,_ like his best buddy.

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I should be asleep, but with my mixed feelings regarding our visitor, I just know I'm going to start pacing and that will wake Ann.

Feeling guilty and vaguely uneasy, I'm sitting in my office in the dark. It's past midnight and the temperature has finally dropped enough that having open windows help.

That's when I hear something I never thought I would hear again (especially in those dark days when I didn't know if my only child was alive or dead); the sound of Rob and a friend on the roof sneaking out.

"Com'on Wili! Your legs are long enough, you can make it!"

"Hooo-Gan! You are crazy! Why can we not walk out the front door, like civilized people? We are not trying to get past the Gestapo to hustle the touts in pool at the Hofbrauhaus! We are going to pick up Kinch at the train station so he does not have to spend the night in a wooden chair until the buses start running in the morning."

"I know but I don't want to wake up my mom and dad; besides, this is more fun."

"Rob, we are not seventeen any longer...and I was never seventeen even when I was seventeen!"

"Have I ever let you down?"

I hear them both stop - a heartbeat and a breath - then:

"Robert Edward Hogan, you have drenched me in ice water; thrown me off a plane; convinced me that I was psychic and a great painter when I am neither; buried me in snow; kidnapped me; gotten me thrown into a Parisian jail on my vacation; waltzed off with my dates; made a fool of me one thousand ninety-five times over; put me at the risk of death or the Russian Front at least once a week since you became my charge; stolen my clothes, my cigars, my Schnapps, my ..."

"Um, your point?"

"...and you have never, EVER, let me down."

I can hear Rob smile. I can hear it.

"Well, then, let's get this show on the road. Here, take my hand, it's a little tricky over this drain pipe."

They move out of my easy hearing, but I still know when they hit the tree (and someone has actually hit the tree, if the 'ouch' was anything to go by), and when they hit the ground (an 'ooff' this time), then the crunch of gravel as they make their way to the garage, the squeal of the hinges to the double barn-type doors and the soft rumble as the engine kicks over, garage then car doors close...

I have no idea that I'm crying until I hear my tears hit the blotter.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, in the dark, but Ann has just found me, to let me know that we have another guest, a very large Negro who is 'as wonderful in person as he seemed in the boys' tales', and since I'm sitting up sulking, I may as well come downstairs and make myself useful.

I think I need to speak to this Kinch; I need him to explain a few things to me, before I speak to Klink.

And I really need to speak with Klink.


	2. Chapter 2

A Stay in Connecticut -

Chapter 2 - Conversations - Part 1

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Ann is right - Kinch IS as wonderful as we have been told.

Stoic and steady, ready wits with a fine sense of humor, I find myself relieved that my Rob has someone so intelligent and sure as his second.

He's a credit to his race: the human race.

And right about now, Mankind needs all the credit it can get.

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A week more.

That is all his mother and I have of him, before this lousy war reclaims him.

Then he's off to Germany with his hand-picked crew, ready to pitch in and clean up Hitler's mess:

"Mom, don't look at me like that; after all, it's all your fault, you and Dad."

Ann gives our jackanapes the Look, as Rob cheerfully weaves a new basket to hold his latest yarn:

"Mom! You know you're always after me to pick up after myself whenever and wherever I make a mess...and you Dad, are always telling me to make sure that I leave our campsites and playgrounds the way I found it for the next person, and if we have to use anything, like firewood, replace it? Well, Germany has been in a real mess since Hitler got ahold of it, and I had to help make an even BIGGER mess to get rid of him, and so now it's time to put the everything back the way we found it, pick up all the broken toys and replace the stuff we used or got rid of, so the next bunch of people can start over with a clean campsite.

"Can't argue with yourselves, can ya?" And there's that smirk that is both endearing and exasperating, blooming on his face, and it's all I can do to not grab him and never let go...

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It's Monday morning and Kinch has been here for a day and Klink for two, and I can honestly say that I've never been more confused in all my life.

My son is home, he's happy, he's healthy, and he makes me proud. Every time I look at him I see the boy he was and the man he's become and I know that all my prayers have been answered. Then, I look past him and HE's there and all I see is red. One minute, I'm laughing at something wonderfully foolish that Rob tells me about trying to get an ice cream maker; the next, I'm scowling because Klink is laughing too. How dare he find all my son's trials funny!

Rob keeps looking at me, a little hurt, a little angry, and acting like he wants to have it out with me, but every time it looks like we'll get our chance to hash things out, someone interrupts. Now it's Kinch, asking if I know anything about the new GI Bill.

I may not know whether I'm coming or going, but no one else seems to have that problem -

Ann has never looked happier; she is in her element, cooking and making and talking. She insists on making sure they are all three perfectly tailored and presentable, and has taken it as her mission to get every patch, ribbon, medal and insignia perfectly aligned. I've often said that I make contacts, but she makes friends, so it's par for the course that she already knows how the Klinks got the family name, how long Kinch's sister was in labor, and has added at least thirty names that I can't spell or pronounce to the Christmas card list.

Rob is every inch like a king returned from exile. For the six weeks prior, Rob hardly stirred from the house and would go only where and when we took him. Now? Rob has taken his guests all over Bridgeport and they plan to go as far afield as Westchester County, New York, to visit his Grandmother Hogan. And everywhere he's gone, he's been surrounded by well-wishers and admirers. He may not be able to tell anyone what he's done for the world, but it hardly seems to matter; people just seem to know a hero and a leader when they see one.

Kinch for his part does not seem surprised in the least. He backs-up Rob as a matter of course and Rob in turn treats it as a given that Kinch is his second and as long as Rob acts like the Emperor has clothes on, everyone else falls into line. After all, no one wants to looks stupid in front of the most popular boy in school.

Klink acts for all the world like the reincarnation of Rob's mangy mutt, Dopey. He fetches and carries and begs to go wherever we go so that he can 'make himself useful' in return for our hospitality. He dogs Rob's heels and takes up his every waking moment and likely a portion of his sleeping moments, since Kinch is so tall, they decided he'd be more comfortable in a real bed of his own, so Rob and Klink are bunking together and giving Kinch the spare room.

I bet he snores.

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Kinch has come with me to my office to fill out the paperwork for his brother and himself for the GI Bill. Poor fella has been getting the runaround, often from people who should know better (and likely do). The main misapprehension is that you had to have seen combat to be eligible for benefits: nothing could be further from the truth. All you need is service in the Armed Forces for 90 days and a subsequent honorable discharge, and you are in.

"So, my brother's years as support at the 504th in the mess and then as a truck driver on the Red Ball Express, that all counts?"

"Whatever he's done as an enlisted man counts. Working in the kitchens or driving a truck or folding Eisenhower's laundry; you did it for the war effort, it counts. But what's the Red Ball Express? I remember hearing the name somewhere, but I don't really know much about it. It's not classified, is it?"

"Oh no, not at all. The Red Ball Express was a system where we commandeered two major roads in France and turned them into our own private parkways. Military traffic only, and it was mainly supplies and men, rolling towards wherever the front was, and then back to pick up more stuff. The trucks rolled day and night, and it was one of the few places in this war that no one could argue if a Negro was capable of driving. And since it was support, not combat, it was deemed safe enough and freed up white personnel for fighting. So it became nearly all colored, except for the officers."

"I suppose there's some cockamamie excuse for that too."

"I suppose, and your son has had many a choice phrase for the entire segregation saga."

I laugh, "I'll bet he does, and if his mother heard them, she'd be forced to wash his mouth out with soap."

I look at Kinch, make up my mind, take a deep breath and begin my inquiry:

"Kinch, I know that you don't know me very well, and I'm presuming a lot on only a day's acquaintance, but I have to ask, I need to know...what's going on between Klink and Rob? I know my boy and if there's one thing he can't stand, it's injustice and if there's one type of person that he'll go out of his very clever way to make miserable, it's a bully. Which is why I can't make heads or tails out of this civility between them; of course, Klink walks around hero-worshiping Rob, that's plain enough, and frankly, I've seen that all his life, but Rob is acting like this is a mutual admiration society. You'd think that after 3 years cozening the man, he'd be sick and tired and never want to see him again, but he's happy as a clam. But why? Please, can you tell me anything, anything at all?"

"John, I can't tell you much of anything. It really isn't my place, and then I'm under orders as much as the next man in your son's command. But I can assure you, Rob isn't the one you need to worry about with Klink. Wilhelm trusts Rob, and while he may whine a little, Rob can talk him into anything, and he'll secretly enjoy tagging along."

I snort, thinking about the night Kinch arrived, and I tell him about the escape via rooftop, repeating verbatim the litany of abuses that Klink supposedly suffered.

Kinch was quick to confirm the recital, "and believe me, Wilhelm left out a lot."

"I can imagine," I state as dryly as a sand martini, "but doesn't that make Klink an even bigger fool for trusting Rob? And why in the world does my Rob trust Klink?"

"Klink was never a fool, not really. He was just brow-beaten and scared, constantly told he was an idiot, constantly second-guessed and threatened,_by his own side_, so much so that he began to hide his intelligence, just do exactly what he was told and nothing more, just to survive to the next day. He used his so-called incompetence as camouflage; a smoke-screen so that, for example, if it never showed on camp records that there were any Jewish prisoners, it just came down to Klink's inefficiency, and not him actively listening to his gut feelings and hiding the Jewish prisoners from official actions."

"So that makes Klink, what? A traitor?"

The word hung in the air, and I felt myself flush, shame and rage in one ugly mix. I wasn't sure who I hated worse in that instant, me or Klink.

Kinch pursed his lips for a moment; I've disappointed him, I can tell. My embarrassment mounts as he sizes me up. A moment more, and Kinch gently asks:

"You have noticed that Klink is wearing an American uniform? John, he didn't steal it or trick anyone into giving it to him. He earned that uniform, in more ways than I can tell. But I can tell you, he was never a Nazi, never even voted for the Nazis. I've read his dossier, his German, Third Reich dossier,"

"You read German?"

"and because he was a Social-Democrat, and because he had a history that included his mother's sister who married a Jewish man, he was lucky that he was already a full Colonel and an experienced pilot and administrator, so that even as a so-so officer, he was too valuable to just waste on the Russian Front. So they stuck him in a dead end job that he tried to do his best in, and tried to keep faith with both his soldier's duty and what was right. Until he couldn't. He made a choice that only one guy in a thousand, ten thousand, would make; he did the right thing.

"Klink's no traitor, sir. You can bet on that."

A swelling, choking feeling rises and twists up my gut, coiling through my lungs and forcing out the words:

"But he was your captor, your jailer!"

Kinch shakes his head:

"Yes, Klink was the warden, but it would be fairer and more accurate to call him our custodian, and he was as much tied to the spot as we were. Sure, he was the enemy, but he was honorable and held to the old ways; so that not a soul in our camp was ever abused by him or his men. He never stole from us, he treated us as well as he could, the worst thing he would ever actually do is throw us in the cooler or cut down on privileges, and he only did it when he felt we deserved to be punished, and not for the fun of it or to push his own power."

As Kinch spoke, I couldn't help but flash back to all those times where Rob's sense of justice and japery got him (by the lights of the Powers That Be) deserved punishments - punishments that he accepted with a shrug and a smile, as fair price for getting the job done.

Kinch's voice rumbled softly on:

"He enforced the rules about hygiene and kept the place as clean as you can when it was so poorly built, and so we didn't catch a lot of illnesses. And when we did get sick or injured, we were treated by competent medical personnel. The camp wasn't a country club by any means, but it was Paradise compared to what everyone else went through.

"And the worst of it was that every time he did what was right, he knew he was risking his neck, because there were so many ways for a POW Kommandant to run afoul of the system, so many ways to punish decent, civilized behavior, that if Klink didn't have some allies on his side, his decency would have gotten him killed more than once."

"So you're trying to tell me that Klink was some kind of hero, just for doing his job?"

"In Nazi Germany, yes."

While his words were sinking in, Kinch added:

"There are only two officers who have ever treated me like I was a man, same as they were: the first is your son; the second is Wilhelm Klink. I owe them both my life, and I will never forget that in the middle of the 'toughest' POW camp deep in Hitler's Germany, I was treated with more respect, and yes, freedom, than I have ever been given in the streets of my hometown."

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I've taken the rest of the week off - who knows when Rob will come back from this latest posting, so I mean to spend as much time as I can with my boy.

I also mean to have it out with Klink, if only for my own peace of mind. I need to see, if only for a minute, what my son sees in this man to forgive and befriend him as he has.

I'm getting to the bottom of this, tonight.

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A/N: Once again, many many thanks to Snooky, Goldleaf, Kat & Wolfie as my invaluable betas and I want to shout out to Sgt. Hakeswill and Marco San Bergos (and Snooky & Goldleaf & Anon who ever you are) for the reviews. I also want to thank Snooky for her headcanon regarding the ice cream maker from her story "We All Scream for Ice Cream" and the omission of the prisoners' religion from the camp records in "He Who Saves a Single Life"

I also wish to remind people that 'colored' was the term for Black or African-American that many or most people of all races used, and it was neither rude nor insulting back then (and remember, Black and/or African-American as a term did not exist back then).


End file.
